


Just Desserts

by pagerunner



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagerunner/pseuds/pagerunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair and Elissa Cousland have an evening chat at the palace about the state of the nation and their changed fortunes... and get distracted with an interruption at, well, an INTERESTING time. Ahem.  (Set post-Origins, Dark Ritual ending.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Desserts

It was a strange thing, but Alistair was beginning to judge the state of the nation by the length of Elissa's hair.

When they'd met, she kept it pulled starkly out of her way in a ponytail he'd wanted oh so many times to tug, just to tease her. When she realized enemy hands could just as easily grasp it, she hacked it brutally short. Over the battles to come, the long and difficult journeys, she continued treating her hair so; and even when the archdemon fell and peace ostensibly descended, she never quite dared to let it change.

But then weeks passed. Months. She threw herself into her duties with the Grey Wardens, building up their forces once again, until she had enough of a command to have breathing space once more. Alistair noticed when she began binding up her hair again instead of horrifying her attendants by taking a dagger to it. Then that reached its practical limit, and she began struggling to fit her helmet over all the coiled braids, to his endless, barely-hidden amusement.

Now, more Queen than Commander these days, she simply let it grow. Alistair found himself staring one evening at the rich, luxurious waves that spilled over her shoulders and brushed the temptingly low curve of her nightdress, while she reclined in bed against a pile of pillows and studied a sheaf of documents that had nothing to do with battle plans.

It looked beautiful. _She_ looked beautiful. He only wished he were in a state to fully appreciate it.

"You can't be serious," he exclaimed, stalking again across the length of their bedchambers. There was much territory to cover, but he'd already tracked such a forceful, repeated path across the imported Orlesian rugs that he was surprised he hadn't worn the things in two. "They're actually _disputing_ contributing funds to storm recovery efforts in Redcliffe?"

Elissa sighed, adjusting her spectacles. They'd been a collaborative effort between Dagna and Sandal; tiny magnification runes gleamed along the frames as she resettled them upon her nose. "You're being accused of improper prioritization," she said. "Three banns are still lodging complaints about delays in compensation for their ongoing rebuilding efforts in the Blighted lands…."

"If one if them is Bann Harald," Alistair muttered, "I'd suggest he stop diverting gold to building homes for his mistresses. Which, in fact, I already have. Which is why he's _not getting anything more._ "

"And everyone seems quite pleased with how you've redistributed those properties," Elissa said, turning a page. "Sister Kirwin in particular, whose new orphanage, by all reports, is doing a world of good. And Harald's wife is quite enjoying her new home. She seems to have commissioned" -- Elissa's head tilted sideways, studying something -- "a rather extraordinary portrait of him for the outbuildings."

"I'm… guessing I don't want to see whatever it is you're holding."

Elissa smirked. "It's entertaining."

"Er. I'm sure."

She chuckled, but set it aside, undisplayed. The next sheet sobered her again. "Certain townspeople are claiming they're being unjustly punished for their leader's transgressions, however."

"Not just the deposed mistresses?"

"Sadly, no."

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. "Splendid."

"And others claim Redcliffe is getting special treatment due to your… sentimental attachments."

He grumbled, turned and began pacing in a different direction for variety's sake. "Naturally. As if massive, destructive mudslides only get attention because of my _treasured_ childhood memories."

"Our visiting friend from New Lothering," Elissa said dryly, "would suggest that anyone building homes on the side of, not to put too fine a point on it, a _cliff_ ought not to be surprised by such matters as erosion."

Alistair came to an abrupt stop. "You don't agree, do you?"

She sighed again. "Of course not. It was a horrible storm and they deserve all due aid. But Bann Tarlan does tend to develop selective deafness whenever discussing issues that don't pertain directly to him. As I discovered this afternoon. And yesterday." She made a face. "And at least three times last week."

"After all that, he's _still_ loitering around?" Alistair grimaced. "He's spent _how_ many days in Denerim on so-called diplomatic matters when he _could_ be back in his own lands doing something useful? Honestly, I ought to go find the man and give him a piece of my mind--"

Elissa tilted the spectacles down her nose. "Dressed like that?" she said mildly.

Alistair stopped mid-turn and looked down, only to notice something he'd forgotten: he _was_ in his private chambers, after all, and he'd been getting ready for bed before Elissa's nighttime reading distracted him….

"Oh," he said, of his entirely naked self.

"It's nice to see you're feeling so… passionate about these matters, at least," Elissa said, coiling a strand of that lovely dark hair around one finger. "I suppose if the blood gets boiling…."

He snorted. His not-entirely-neutral state had more to do with the force of her stare, and the way he was sure those spectacles could show her every pore of his skin, as powerful as they were. She certainly didn't need them for bedtime reading. Their purpose, in fact, was for spying. She just knew he liked the scholarly look on her. _My wise, wily trickster queen,_ he'd teased her, tracing the line of those frames back into her luxurious hair. His fingers suddenly itched to do it again.

He didn't say anything this time, though. He just stared back until she at last moved all the papers aside, setting them on her bedside table. The glasses followed with a teasing side-to-side clink.

"What?" she said, watching him speculatively. "Were politics… not the only thing on your mind?"

Alistair's bare feet tracked another, stealthier path across the floor.

"I can think of other things that would get the blood moving much, much better," he said, approaching the bed.

"Oh, really. What would you suggest?" Elissa let her shoulders roll back, tightening the fabric across her breasts. He studied the revealed contours with appreciation, but didn't leap straight to the point quite yet.

"A good swordfight, maybe," he said. "Definitely invigorating. And much more satisfying than diplomacy."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting a duel?"

"Perhaps." He got onto the bed. "It's so much more… direct. Confronting your challenger face-to-face. No pretense. No artifice. Just…." He crawled closer to her. "Pure physical force."

She hadn't slid entirely into metaphor, from the look of her response. Elissa's smile went a little wry, and the hand that reached for him touched a scar, first. "Always the warrior," she said.

He stroked her hair back. "You've taken to this better than I have," he admitted.

"Not really," she said, making a moue. It only made him want to kiss her. "But I was trained. I knew the game. I just had to make myself remember the rules." She shifted a little, tracing the skin beneath her palm, the curving edges of the tattoo he'd at last let Zevran talk him into. Alistair's breath quickened under her touch. "Still. I… agree. Sometimes I miss the battle. The power of it. The clarity."

He spared a glance again for all the nonsense stacked up on her table, and had to agree. But then Elissa moved beneath him, making the sheets that still covered her whisper against his skin. The friction made him gasp.

"And dueling," she went on, much more archly, "does indeed have its appeal."

He chuckled. Back to metaphor, then. Delicious, delicious metaphor. "Should I issue a challenge, then, my queen? Because you certainly seem to want to… practice."

"Oh, yes. Does the challenged get to choose her weapons?"

"Absolutely."

"Bare-handed, then," she said. He reached down between them, tugging the blankets loose. She rather eagerly helped. "Just your strength against mine."

" _Exactly_ what I had in mind."

"What decides the victory?"

He slid closer, able now to press fully against her. His hand skidded up one firmly-muscled thigh, pushing her nightdress higher, and he murmured his answer into her ear: "Whoever screams first."

She wriggled beneath him, letting him work the dress up over her head. "Accepted," she breathed, falling back. Her lovely, creamy skin fairly glowed in the fading rays of sunset through their window. "And to the victor," she went on, "goes--"

Her words were cut off by a soft rap against the door.

Alistair groaned. So did Elissa. He was the first to move, despite how desperately his body protested at the loss.

"Maker's _breath,_ " he muttered, levering himself up again. "Of _all_ the times…."

Her hands still lingered on his shoulders. "We could just leave it."

"No," he groused, getting up. "It's probably important. It's _always_ important. Oh, King, come fix this terrible mess! We're all out of handkerchiefs and we can't remember how to blow our own noses!"

Elissa giggled. "Alistair, it's probably just--"

The knock came again. He rolled his eyes and stalked for the door, despite Elissa's suddenly much more forceful call. "Alistair, for Andraste's sake, you're--"

He ignored it and cast open the door, bracing himself for Whatever It Was, only to find himself facing a wide-eyed elven servant girl, who was turning brightest red from her cheeks to the very tips of her ears. The tray she carried rocked precariously in her hands.

"Your…" she said haltingly, and her eyes, of course, dropped lower. "….Majesty."

Alistair gulped. "Oh, Andraste's flaming _sword,_ " he said, and wanted rather desperately to disappear. He heard badly suppressed laughter from across the room, and hunched in on himself, blushing even worse than the poor girl was.

She, for her part, babbled out her intended speech, seemingly out of reflex more than anything else.

"I brought you this, Your Majesty. The queen requested it… since you missed dessert…."

Something hit him from behind. Alistair turned -- which probably didn't help, since the girl only gasped again at the new view -- to find a wadded-up dressing gown on the floor. Elissa, who'd thrown it, was smirking. Of course, all that lovely long hair was covering _her_ perfectly well.

He thought up several inventive curses for her, and mouthed three or four in her general direction. She actually had the gall to stick out her tongue.

When the servant girl made an awkward little noise, he snatched up the robe and fumbled it on as quickly as he could, although his hands didn't want to cooperate with the tie. It left the thing still loose in front as he warred between trying to cover himself or to accept the tray. The battle went on for several hopeless moments. "Um. Thank you. And sorry. Really… very sorry, miss… um…."

"Sariale," she said, at last meeting his eyes. "It's all right -- I really don't m…." She corrected herself hurriedly. "That is, if I've offended, I'll--"

"No, no… no offense. Quite accidental. I shouldn't have-- um…." He stopped himself and took the tray. The robe, of course, gaped open. "I'll just take this, then."

"Very good," she said, and made a curtsy that, thanks to their height difference, made the otherwise respectful gesture put her eyes _exactly_ level with the most embarrassing thing possible. And oh, dear, Alistair thought, but could the girl ever hold a curtsy. "Thank you, your Majesty."

When she disappeared at last and the door swung shut, Elissa went into absolute gales of laughter.

"By the name of all that's holy," Alistair said, dazed, "why didn't -- you --"

"Oh, your face," Elissa gasped, going into outright tears of mirth. " _Her_ face. Oh, Alistair."

"Was she really staring as much as I think she was?"

She wiped her cheeks. "More, in fact."

"Star-struck serving maids," he said desperately. "Maker's breath, that's _just_ what I need."

Still laughing, Elissa beckoned to him. "None of that, now. You know better. And I am not letting you get away after _such_ a delicious display."

"Display, indeed. You could have _warned_ me!"

"I did," she pointed out reasonably. "Twice. Now come _here._ "

There was no denying that command. She'd brushed her hair back and positioned herself in her own exhibition, one that snapped him back to attention in every possible way. He nearly dropped the tray. Elissa hummed a warning and wagged her finger.

"Careful," she said. "Bring that with you. I want a taste."

Alistair, who hadn't even seen properly what he was carrying, finally looked it over: honey-glazed pears, slices of several cheeses, nuts and dried, tart berries. It did look tasty, but Elissa was outdoing it. He took in a breath and made it the rest of the way back to the bed, offering it to her. She only smiled as she dipped one fingertip into the glaze.

"I am never going to get used to this place," Alistair breathed fervently. "I must look a fool."

"Nonsense," she said, tracing patterns on the plate. "You make a fine king. You're earnest and honest and you pursue things with integrity, you treat people with respect even when they _can't_ blow their own noses--"

"Or are too busy staring at my private bits," he said, a bit strained.

"And you stand by what's right, always." She looked serious for a moment, but then smiled again, and tasted the thick amber liquid on her fingertip. Something low and deep in him twitched pleasurably. "And compared to the stuffy, stolid aristocracy around here, you are absolutely a breath of fresh air."

He thought about that a minute, and -- it was _right there_ , after all -- gave in and tasted the cheese. The place did have its advantages. But… "I'd still fit in better on a battlefield," he sighed.

She reached up to take the tray, then set it aside and clasped his hands instead. "You're the kind of man who has the chance to make them unnecessary," she said softly.

He shut his eyes, letting her pull him forward until he bumped up against the bed again, standing between her knees. Her legs coiled around him, pinning him there. Not the worst place in the world to be, he admitted, the irony of her statement notwithstanding.

"Now," she said, her voice going a little breathy. "If you _do_ still insist on expending a little energy the old-fashioned way… is the duel still on?"

"I don't know about that," he said, drawing it out. "You ought to be punished, you… naughty… person. For completely unsolicited and badly timed desserts."

"Oh, my. Such a crime. Planning on throwing me back in Fort Drakon, then? Joining me there like last time? Finally getting around to using those chains?"

He chuckled at last, then recaptured her in a kiss instead. "For now," he said, licking the honey off her lips, "this will do."

And as she finally tugged him down and rolled atop him, covering him in a fine, dark curtain that shut out every distraction in the world, Alistair decided he was right -- and that for all the inconveniences and challenges and changes they still faced, being together like this was absolutely worth it all.


End file.
